Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn

by Edited By Robert Asprin

  “It’s safe now. Hell Hound. We’ve rescued you from your own carelessness.”

  Regaining his feet Zalbar sheathed his sword and stepped into the open. Even before being hailed he had recognized the dark figure. A blue hawk-mask and cloak could not hide the size or colouring of his rescuer, and if they had, the Hell Hound would have known the smooth grace of those movements anywhere.

  “What carelessness is that, Jubal?” he asked, hiding his own annoyance.

  “You have used this route three nights in a row now,” the ex-gladiator announced. “That’s all the pattern an assassin needs.”

  The Negro crime-lord did not seem surprised or annoyed that his disguise had been penetrated. If anything, Jubal gave an impression of being pleased with himself as he bantered with the Hell Hound.

  Zalbar realized that Jubal was right: on duty or off, a predictable pattern was an invitation for ambush. He was spared the embarrassment of making this admission, however, as the unseen saviour on the rooftops chose this moment to dump the assassin’s body to the street. The two men studied it with disdain.

  “Though I appreciate your intervention,” the Hell Hound commented drily, “it would have been nice to take him alive. I’ll admit a passing curiosity as to who sent him.”

  “I can tell you that.” The hawk-masked figure smiled grimly. “It’s Kurd’s money that filled that assassin’s purse, though it puzzles me why he would bear you such a grudge.”

  “You knew about this in advance?”

  “One of my informants overheard the hiring in the Vulgar Unicorn. It’s amazing how many normally careful people forget that a man can hear as well as talk.”

  “Why didn’t you send word to warn me in advance?” “I had no proof.” The black man shrugged. “It’s doubtful my witness would be willing to testify in court. Besides, I still owed you a debt from our last meeting… or have you forgotten you saved my life once?”

  “I haven’t forgotten. As I told you then, I was only doing my duty. You owed me nothing.”

  “… And I was only doing my duty as a Rankan citizen in assisting you tonight.” Jubal’s teeth flashed in the moonlight.

  “Well, whatever your motive, you have my thanks.”

  Jubal was silent a moment. “If you truly wish to express your gratitude,” he said at last, “would you join me now for a drink? There’s something I would like to discuss with you.”

  “I … I’m afraid I can’t. It’s a long walk to your … house and I have duties tomorrow.”

  “I was thinking of the Vulgar Unicorn.”

  “The Vulgar Unicorn?” Zalbar stammered, genuinely astonished. “Where my assassination was planned. I can’t go in there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well… if for no other reason than that I am a Hell Hound. It would do neither of us any good to be seen together publicly, much less in the Vulgar Unicorn.”

  “You could wear my mask and cloak. That would hide your uniform and face. Then, to any onlooker it would only appear that I was having a drink with one of my men.”

  For a moment Zalbar wavered in indecision, then the audacity of a Hell Hound in a blue hawk-mask seized his fancy and he laughed aloud. “Why not?” he agreed, reaching for the offered disguise. “I’ve always wondered what the inside of that place looked like.”

  ****

  ZALBAR HAD NOT realized how bright the moonlight was until he stepped through the door of the Vulgar Unicorn. A few small oil lamps were the only illumination and those were shielded towards the wall, leaving most of the interior in heavy shadow. Though he could see figures huddled at several tables as he followed Jubal into the main room, he could not make out any individual’s features.

  There was one, however, whose face he did not need to see, the unmistakably gaunt form of Hakiem the storyteller slouched at a central table. A small bowl of wine sat before him, apparently forgotten, as the tale-spinner nodded in near-slumber. Zalbar harboured a secret liking for the ancient character and would have passed the table quietly, but Jubal caught the Hell Hound’s eye and winked broadly. Withdrawing a coin from his sword-belt, the slaver tossed it in an easy arch towards the storyteller’s table.

  Hakiem’s hand moved like a flicker of light and the coin disappeared in mid flight. His drowsy manner remained unchanged.

  “That’s payment enough for a hundred stories, old man,” Jubal rumbled softly, “but tell them somewhere else … and about someone else.”

  Moving with quiet dignity, the storyteller rose to his feet, bestowed a withering gaze on both of them, and stalked regally from the room. His bowl of wine had disappeared with his departure.

  In the brief moment that their eyes met, Zalbar had felt an intense intelligence and was certain that the old man had penetrated both mask and cloak to coldly observe his true identity. Hastily revising his opinion of the gaunt tale-spinner, the Hell Hound recalled Jubal’s description of an informant whom people forgot could hear as well as see and knew whose spying had truly saved his life.

  The slaver sank down at the recently vacated table and immediately received two unordered goblets of expensive qualis. Settling next to him, Zalbar noted that this table had a clear view of all entrances and exits of the tavern and his estimation of Hakiem went up yet another notch.

  “If I had thought of it sooner, I would have suggested that your man on the rooftop join us,” the Hell Hound commented. “I feel I owe him a drink of thanks.”

  “That man is a woman, Moria; she works the darkness better than I do … and without the benefits of protective coloration.”

  “Well, I’d still like to thank her.”

  “I’d advise against it.” The slaver grinned. “She hates Rankans, and the Hell Hounds in particular. She only intervened at my orders.”

  “You remind me of several questions.” Zalbar set his goblet down. “Why did you act on my behalf tonight? And how is it that you know the cry the army uses to warn of archers?”

  “In good time. First you must answer a question of mine. I’m not used to giving out information for free, and since I told you the identity of your enemy, perhaps now you can tell me why Kurd would set an assassin on your trail?”

  After taking a thoughtful sip of his drink, Zalbar began to explain the situation between himself and Kurd. As the story unfolded, the Hell Hound found he was saying more than was necessary, and was puzzled as to why he would reveal to Jubal the anger and bitterness he had kept secret even from his own force. Perhaps, it was because, unlike his comrades whom he respected, Zalbar saw the slaver as a man so corrupt that his own darkest thoughts and doubts would seem commonplace by comparison.

  Jubal listened in silence until the Hell Hound was finished, then nodded slowly. “Yes, that makes sense now,” he murmured…

  “The irony is that at the moment of attack I was bemoaning my inability to do anything about Kurd. For a while, at least, an assassin is unnecessary. I am under orders to leave Kurd alone.”

  Instead of laughing, Jubal studied his opposite thoughtfully. “Strange you should say that.” He spoke with measured care. “I also have a problem I am currently unable to deal with. Perhaps we can solve each other’s problems.”

  “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?” Zalbar asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “In a way. Actually this is better. Now, in return for the favour I must ask, I can offer something you want. If you address yourself to my problem, I’ll put an end to Kurd’s practice for you.”

  “I assume that what you want is illegal. If you really think I’d…”

  “It is not illegal!” Jubal spat with venom. “I don’t need your help to break the law, that’s easy enough to do despite the efforts of your so-called elite force. No, Hell Hound, I find it necessary to offer you a bribe to do your job—to enforce the law.”

  “Any citizen can appeal to any Hell Hound for assistance.” Zalbar felt his own anger grow. “If it is indeed within the law, you don’t have to…”

  “Fi
ne!” the slaver interrupted. “Then, as a Rankan citizen I ask you to investigate and stop a wave of murders—someone is killing my people; hunting blue-masks through the streets as if they were diseased animals.”

  “I … I see.”

  “And I see that this comes as no surprise,” Jubal snarled. “Well, Hell Hound, do your duty. I make no pretence about my people, but they are being executed without a trial or hearing. That’s murder. Or do you hesitate because it’s one of your own who’s doing the killing?”

  Zalbar’s head came up with a snap and Jubal met his stare with a humourless smile.

  “That’s right, I know the murderer, not that it’s been difficult to learn. Tempus has been open enough with his bragging.”

  “Actually,” Zalbar mused drily, “I was wondering why you haven’t dealt with him yourself if you know he’s guilty. I’ve heard hawk-masks have killed transgressors when their offence was far less certain.”

  Now it was Jubal who averted his eyes in discomfort. “We’ve tried,” he admitted, “Tempus seems exceptionally hard to down. Some of my men went against my orders and used magical weapons. The result was four more bloody masks to his credit.”

  The Hell Hound could hear the desperate appeal in the slaver’s confession.

  “I cannot allow him to continue his sport, but the price of stopping him grows fearfully high. I’m reduced to asking for your intervention. You, more than the others, have prided yourself in performing your duties in strict adherence to the codes of justice. Tell me, doesn’t the law apply equally to everyone?”

  A dozen excuses and explanations leapt to Zalbar’s lips, then a cold wave of anger swept them away. “You’re right, though I never thought you’d be the one to point out my duty to me. A killer in uniform is still a killer and should be punished for his crimes … all of them. If Tempus is your murderer, I’ll personally see to it that he’s dealt with.”

  “Very well.” Jubal nodded. “And in return, I’ll fill my end of the bargain Kurd will no longer work in Sanctuary.”

  Zalbar opened his mouth to protest. The temptation was almost too great—if Jubal could make good his promise—but, no, “I’d have to insist that your actions remain within the law,” he murmured reluctantly. “I can’t ask you to do anything illegal.”

  “Not only is it legal, it’s done! Kurd is out of business as of now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kurd can’t work without subjects,” the slaver smiled, “and I’m his supplier—or I was. Not only have I ended his supply of slaves, I’ll spread the word to the other slavers that if they deal with him I’ll undercut their prices in the other markets and drive them out of town as well.”

  Zalbar smiled with new distaste beneath his mask. “You knew what he was doing with the slaves and you dealt with him anyway?”

  “Killing slaves for knowledge is no worse than having slaves kill each other in the arena for entertainment. Either is an unpleasant reality in our world.”

  Zalbar winced at the sarcasm in the slaver’s voice, but was unwilling to abandon his position.

  “We have different views of fighting. You were forced into the arena as a gladiator while I freely enlisted in the army. Still, we share a common experience: however terrible the battle: however frightful the odds, we had a chance. We could fight back and survive—or at least take our foe-men with us as we fell. Being trussed up like a sacrificial animal, helpless to do anything but watch your enemy—no, not your enemy—your tormentor’s weapon descend on you again and again … No being, slave or freedman, should be forced into that. I cannot think of an enemy I hate enough to condemn to such a fate.”

  “I can think of a few,” Jubal murmured, “but then, I’ve never shared your ideals. Though we both believe in justice we seek it in different ways.”

  “Justice?” the Hell Hound sneered. “That’s the second time you’ve used that word tonight. I must admit it sounds strange coming from your lips.”

  “Does it?” the slaver asked. “I’ve always dealt fairly with my own or with those who do business with me. We both acknowledge the corruption in our world, Hell Hound. The difference is that, unlike yourself, I don’t try to protect the world—I’m hard-pressed to protect myself and my own.”

  Zalbar set down his unfinished drink. “I’ll leave your mask and cloak outside,” he said levelly, “I fear that the difference is too great for us to enjoy a drink together.”

  Anger flashed in the slaver’s eyes. “But you will investigate the murders?”

  “I will,” the Hell Hound promised, “and as the complaining citizen you’ll be informed of the results of my investigation.”

  Tempus was working on his sword when Zalbar and Razkuli approached him. They had deliberately waited to confront him here in the barracks rather than at his favoured haunt, the Lily Garden. Despite everything that had or might occur, they were all Army and what was to be said should not be heard by civilians outside their elite club.

  Tempus favoured them with a sullen glare, then brazenly returned his attention to his work. It was an unmistakable affront as he was only occupied with filing a series of saw-like teeth into one edge of his sword: a project that should run a poor second to speaking with the Hell Hound’s captain.

  “I would have a word with you, Tempus,” Zalbar announced, swallowing his anger.

  “It’s your prerogative,” the other replied without looking up.

  Razkuli shifted his feet, but a look from his friend stilled him.

  “I have had a complaint entered against you,” Zalbar continued. “A complaint which has been confirmed by numerous witnesses. I felt it only fair to hear your side of the story before I went to Kadakithis with it.”

  At the mention of the prince’s name, Tempus raised his head and ceased his filing. “And the nature of the complaint?” he asked darkly.

  “It is said you’re committing wanton murder during your off-duty hours.”

  “Oh, that. It’s not wanton. I only hunt hawk-masks.”

  Zalbar had been prepared for many possible responses to his accusations: angry denial, a mad dash for freedom, a demand for proof or witnesses. This easy admission, however, caught him totally off-balance. “You … you admit your guilt?” he managed at last, surprise robbing him of his composure.

  “Certainly. I’m only surprised anyone has bothered to complain. No one should miss the killers I’ve taken … least of all you.”

  “Well, it’s true I hold no love for Jubal or his sell-swords,” Zalbar admitted, “but, there are still due processes of law to be followed. If you want to see them brought to justice you should have…”

  “Justice?” Tempus laughed. “Justice has nothing to do with it.”

  “Then why hunt them?”

  “For practice,” Tempus informed them, studying his serrated sword once more. “An unexercised sword grows slow. I like to keep a hand in whenever possible and supposedly the sell-swords Jubal hires are the best in town—though, to tell the truth, if the ones I’ve faced are any example, he’s being cheated.”

  “That’s all?” Razkuli burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. “That’s all the reason you need to disgrace your uniform?”

  Zalbar held up a warning hand, but Tempus only laughed at the two of them.

  “That’s right, Zalbar, better keep a leash on your dog there. If you can’t stop his yapping, I’ll do it for you.”

  For a moment Zalbar thought he might have to restrain his friend, but Razkuli had passed explosive rage. The swarthy Hell Hound glared at Tempus with a deep, glowering hatred which Zalbar knew could not be dimmed now with reason or threats. Grappling with his own anger, Zalbar turned, at last, to Tempus.

  “Will you be as arrogant when the prince asks you to explain your actions?” he demanded.

  “I won’t have to.” Tempus grinned again. “Kitty-Cat will never call me to task for anything. You got your way on the Street of Red Lanterns, but that was before the prince fully comprehe
nded my position here. He’d even reverse that decision if he hadn’t taken a public stance on it.”

  Zalbar was frozen by anger and frustration as he realized the truth of Tempus’s words. “And just what is your position here?”

  “If you have to ask,” Tempus laughed, “I can’t explain. But you must realize that you can’t count on the prince to support your charges. Save yourselves a lot of grief by accepting me as someone outside the law’s jurisdiction.” He rose, sheathed his sword and started to leave, but Zalbar blocked his path.

  “You may be right. You may indeed be above the law, but if there is a god—any god—watching over us now, the time is not far off when your sword will miss and we’ll be rid of you. Justice is a natural process. It can’t be swayed for long by a prince’s whims.”

  “Don’t call upon the gods unless you’re ready to accept their interference.” Tempus grimaced. “You’d do well to heed that warning from one who knows.”

  Before Zalbar could react, Razkuli was lunging forwards, his slim wrist-dagger darting for Tempus’s throat. It was too late for the Hell Hound captain to intervene either physically or verbally, but then, Tempus did not seem to require outside help.

  Moving with lazy ease, Tempus slapped his left hand over the speeding point, his palm taking the full impact of Razkuli’s vengeance. The blade emerged from the back of his hand and blood spurted freely for a moment, but Tempus seemed not to notice. A quick wrench with the already wounded hand and the knife was twisted from Razkuli’s grip. Then Tempus’s right hand closed like a vice on the throat of his dumbfounded attacker, lifting him, turning him, slamming him against a wall and pinning him there with his toes barely touching the floor.

  “Tempus!” Zalbar barked, his friend’s danger breaking through the momentary paralysis brought on by the sudden explosion of action.

  “Don’t worry, Captain,” Ternpus responded in a calm voice. “If you would be so kind?”

  He extended his bloody hand towards Zalbar and the tall Hell Hound gingerly withdrew the dagger from the awful wound. As the knife came clear the clotting ooze of blood erupted into a steady stream. Tempus studied the scarlet cascade with distaste, then thrust his hand against Razkuli’s face.